they have the right to access their original birth certificate. The records will either be at the Court of Session in Edinburgh or the Sheriff Court that authorised the adoption or at General Register House in Edinburgh. You write a letter to the National Records of Scotland and they’ll tell you where to go looking. Thenyou rock up with photo ID and they’ll open up your original birth certificate extract.’
‘That’s all? Just the short form of the birth certificate?’
‘Yes. But that’s not the end of the story. You can go to the courts and ask for more information. You should be able to get your hands on the original petition to adopt, the report of the Court Reporter or Curator, the social work report, the circumstances of the birth mother, the reasons for the adoption, her address and where the birth took place. There might even be reports from the local authority or the adoption agency, if one was involved.’
Karen felt the warm glow that came with forward movement on a case. ‘I had no idea that adopted kids could access so much of their background.’
‘It’s a good thing, I think. Generally, the adoption records are well kept and pretty comprehensive.’
‘So, is it just the adopted person who can access the records?’
Giorsal pulled a face. ‘The general rule is that it’s only the adopted person or someone specifically authorised by them.’
‘That suggests there might be exceptions to the general rule?’ Karen wasn’t too hopeful, knowing only too well the hurdles of bureaucracy.
But before Giorsal could reply, a brisk tattoo of knocking broke into the conversation. Without waiting for a response, the door swung open and a tall thin man in black trousers, a black polo neck and a black leather jacket walked in. Salt-and-pepper hair en brosse, narrow sunbed-tanned face bisected by a perfectly trimmed Clark Gable moustache, Detective Inspector Alan Noble always made Karen think of the Milk Tray man, only more sinister. He looked surprised to see her, but didn’t let that break his stride.
‘Hello, ladies,’ he said, brisk as the wind off the North Sea. ‘Well, well, well, look what the breeze blew in. I didn’t expectto see you here, Karen. I thought you’d abandoned us for the fleshpots of the capital.’
Three sentences in and already she was weary of his overblown archness. ‘Hi, Alan. I needed a wee steer on adoption law, and who better to ask than a social worker?’
His face creased in a smile. ‘Aye. Like the old joke, eh? What’s the difference between a Rottweiler and a social worker?’ Both women sighed. ‘You can get your kids back off a Rottweiler.’ He giggled, a ridiculously high-pitched sound coming from a man with his image.
‘See, the thing about jokes, Alan? They’re supposed to be funny,’ Karen said wearily. ‘Do you need me to step outside so you can talk to Giorsal?’
‘No, no. No need for that. Nothing confidential here.’ Without waiting for an invitation, he sat in the other visitor chair, carefully pinching the knees of his trousers to preserve their crease. ‘I’m only here for a bit of background. Like you, except my case isn’t cold yet.’
‘Is this about Gabriel Abbott?’ Giorsal cut in.
‘The same. First thought was a suicide then we decided it was a murder. Well, now the pathologist has had a look at the body and the gun and he thinks we might have been right in the first place.’
‘What? He thinks it’s a suicide after all?’
DI Noble gave a condescending nod. ‘Got it in one, Giorsal.’ He mispronounced it, enunciating each vowel with deliberate clarity, as if he despised her for being saddled with something so outlandish as a Gaelic name. ‘The suicide we thought was a murder turns out to be a suicide after all.’
11
K arenleaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Things that turned out not to be what they appeared were what she enjoyed most. The prospect of unravelling a tight, intractable knot
‘That’s all? Just the short form of the birth certificate?’
‘Yes. But that’s not the end of the story. You can go to the courts and ask for more information. You should be able to get your hands on the original petition to adopt, the report of the Court Reporter or Curator, the social work report, the circumstances of the birth mother, the reasons for the adoption, her address and where the birth took place. There might even be reports from the local authority or the adoption agency, if one was involved.’
Karen felt the warm glow that came with forward movement on a case. ‘I had no idea that adopted kids could access so much of their background.’
‘It’s a good thing, I think. Generally, the adoption records are well kept and pretty comprehensive.’
‘So, is it just the adopted person who can access the records?’
Giorsal pulled a face. ‘The general rule is that it’s only the adopted person or someone specifically authorised by them.’
‘That suggests there might be exceptions to the general rule?’ Karen wasn’t too hopeful, knowing only too well the hurdles of bureaucracy.
But before Giorsal could reply, a brisk tattoo of knocking broke into the conversation. Without waiting for a response, the door swung open and a tall thin man in black trousers, a black polo neck and a black leather jacket walked in. Salt-and-pepper hair en brosse, narrow sunbed-tanned face bisected by a perfectly trimmed Clark Gable moustache, Detective Inspector Alan Noble always made Karen think of the Milk Tray man, only more sinister. He looked surprised to see her, but didn’t let that break his stride.
‘Hello, ladies,’ he said, brisk as the wind off the North Sea. ‘Well, well, well, look what the breeze blew in. I didn’t expectto see you here, Karen. I thought you’d abandoned us for the fleshpots of the capital.’
Three sentences in and already she was weary of his overblown archness. ‘Hi, Alan. I needed a wee steer on adoption law, and who better to ask than a social worker?’
His face creased in a smile. ‘Aye. Like the old joke, eh? What’s the difference between a Rottweiler and a social worker?’ Both women sighed. ‘You can get your kids back off a Rottweiler.’ He giggled, a ridiculously high-pitched sound coming from a man with his image.
‘See, the thing about jokes, Alan? They’re supposed to be funny,’ Karen said wearily. ‘Do you need me to step outside so you can talk to Giorsal?’
‘No, no. No need for that. Nothing confidential here.’ Without waiting for an invitation, he sat in the other visitor chair, carefully pinching the knees of his trousers to preserve their crease. ‘I’m only here for a bit of background. Like you, except my case isn’t cold yet.’
‘Is this about Gabriel Abbott?’ Giorsal cut in.
‘The same. First thought was a suicide then we decided it was a murder. Well, now the pathologist has had a look at the body and the gun and he thinks we might have been right in the first place.’
‘What? He thinks it’s a suicide after all?’
DI Noble gave a condescending nod. ‘Got it in one, Giorsal.’ He mispronounced it, enunciating each vowel with deliberate clarity, as if he despised her for being saddled with something so outlandish as a Gaelic name. ‘The suicide we thought was a murder turns out to be a suicide after all.’
11
K arenleaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Things that turned out not to be what they appeared were what she enjoyed most. The prospect of unravelling a tight, intractable knot
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